A B Davis High School - Maroon and White Yearbook (Mount Vernon, NY)

Page 128 text:

The Last Straw Q l'm one OT Those simple souls who Tinds exciTemenT and advenTure in a chocolaTe soda. I rush wiTh gusTaTory anTicipaTion To The nearesT TounTain OT my enioymenT, buT any drugsTore aTmosphere desTroys my Theories OT a non-conTormisT. The pink-eared bunnies, Tied wiTh blue ribbons To bars oT chocolaTe, leer aT me as l sliTher around on The leaTher s+ool and Tinally esTablish myselT on The edge, my TeeT gripping The iron TooT-rail. l order a chocolaTe soda, simply because l'm Too nonplussecl To dare To Think oT anyThing else and Then look hopefully around Tor a cheery sign ThaT will read, Please Pay When Served . The mirrors are plasTered wiTh many gay signs, so ThaT l have To duck To caTch a glimpse OT myselT llaTer regreTTing I Took The Troublel. Garish red and blue leTTering meeTs my eye: and l read, TascinaTed, HOT ChocolaTe l-loTl , Hawaiian TempTaTion wiTh Whipped Cream-lOc , Special: SauerkrauT Sand- wich . lvly bleary eyes are Tocused on my Tellow eaTers, all perTecTly in harmony wiTh The gliTTer oT chromium and The claTTer OT silver. The perT young blonde nexT To me is deTTly brandishing ThaT womanly weapon, The lipsTick. l-las she a check? I glance Tur- Tively. I-las anyone a check? My soda has suddenly slid across The cold slab OT Tuckahoe marble and boldly conTronTs me, a gob oT whipped cream sTanding as sTiTT and menacing as an exclamaTion poinT. NoThing To do buT delve inTo The TroThy mixTurel You can'T drown your Troubles in a chocolaTe soda. Don'T be misguided by any Tool who Tells you ThaT! A pineapple soda maybe: l, Tor one, wouldn'T know. BUT a choco- laTe soda neverl Each TasTy sip brings nearer The gloomy momenT when you will have To Tumble amid The rubbish oT your purse Tor a mere TiTTeen cenTs: a dime and a nickel, or, if you preTer, Three nickels. The English would call iT someThing like one and Tuppence hapenny. Once, unable To geT The aTTenTion OT a clerk in l.oTT's, l leTT my change on The counTer and sTarTecl To slip unnoTiced To The sTreeT. I-ley you! boomed The clerk. The chromiums reTused To gliTTer1 The silver, To claTTer. l crepT back To The salesman Tollowed by The pepperminT eyes oT every chocolaTe rabbiT in every glass showcase. You goTTa have a check! snapped The subiecT oT many nighTmares ThaT have since filled my sleeping hours. A slip oT cardboard was clapped inTo my hand, and somehow l handed iT To a very much amused cashier. EveryTime l'm meT wiTh such a predicamenT, I resolve To organize a socieTy Tor abolishing This socially embarrassing rouTine. A plan musT be devised so ThaT peaceTul, Tun'loving ciTizens will be able To sip nonchalanTly Their sodas wiThouT worrying when To PGY- ' Marcia Freeman Snow SoTTly, soTTly iT Tell, And cloaked The world in iTs spell, WhiTer Than whiTe iT gleams On The banks OT The silver sTreams. Elaine Baxter 0 I24 0

Page 127 text:

l-lis hearf beaf wildly! Franfically, he plunged info fhe wafers below! Oh, how his eyes gleamed Wifh hope And faifhl The boafs. . . had come fo fake him. .. home. . . ! The sfruggling form never reached his boaf, Buf Mofher River fook him in her arms And rocked fhe fired child fo sleep. She bore him fo fhe ofher side- To fhe Cify-across-fhe-river. Langdon J. Collier Yamantalca A pof-bellied idol, girdled wifh forfy bleeding, horrible heads. his hundred arms grasping insfrumenfs of 'rorfure and deafh, his gaping moufh lined wifh green and crimson fangs, his iaws dripping saliva and his bulging eyes filled wifh violence. Yamanfaka, Tibefan king of l-lell. You may laugh af his squaffing sfance and his grofesque feafures when you sfand in fhe corridor of a museum surround ed by amused friends, buf go fo him yourself, alone, when fhe day is waning. You will see 'rhe shadows play fricks on his brillianfly carved and colored fealures. You will affempf fo laugh again buf if is hard fo be filled wifh humor as fhe lighf flickers soffly and his eyes reflecf fhe lighf info your own. Your smile will vanish. Your cheeks will pale and you will sfruggle fo draw your gaze from fhose bale- ful orbs fhaf gleam insidiously. No sound breaks fhe sfillness, no friend who laughs breaks fhe spell. Those arms each become a menacing weapon fhaf seeks fo grasp and formenf you. You cannof draw away. l-lis feafures now are alive: his pof-belly wiggles: his weapons iangle and his iaws drip ominously. You are fransfixed, gazing, gazing, deeper and deep- er info fhose merciless balls of hafe fhaf affempf fo mimic eyes. They are more fhan eyes, fhey are windows 'rhrough which you see an Orienfal purgafory: 'lhe weird. unspeak- ing forms of human sinful gods: war, famine, hafe, greed and jealousy: fhe lurid, hideous demon forfurers, servanfs of Yama, and fhe anguished, wrifhing shapes of souls in formenf. All fhis in fhe eyes of Yamanfaka. The sculpfor has done his work foo well. This fhing is alive. if wrifhes, if fwisfs and screams fo a hellish dance macabre. To your dismay and horror, fhe fapesfry behind fhis monsfer, depicfing all fhe hells and punishmenfs of a La- masf sinner, is now alive. Each ghasfly figure in fhe woven clofh is moving like fhe inha- bifanfs of a foy world. Buf fhese are no foys, fhey are servanfs of Yamanfaka coming af his bidding fo seize you for your blaspheming. Wrench yourself away, run, run, run, back info your lighfed world. Once safely fhere your eyes cease fheir sfaring and your hearf sfeadies ifs beaf buf your brain furns fhe quesfion over and over. Was if fhe shadows fhaf made Yama and his courf dance, a producf of your imaginafion. Of course Yama was iusf an idol. and fhose lighfs cerfainly played fricks wifh his feafures, you could have sworn fhey moved. Nofhing buf imaginafion yef, buf ... . . . . . . .. could ........... Impossible! This is fhe Twenfiefh Cenfury. Yef? Was if fhe shadows? TVaIter Fairseruis, Jr. 0I230

Page 129 text:

People Are Queer I am The soul oT a man. Perhaps you see me someTimes, as I darT ouT Trom behind The opaque specTacles OT my owner. You may noT realize iT, buT ThaT hungry gleam which shows iTselT Tor buT a brieT momenT is The resulT OT my TranTic eTTorTs To escape. The oTher day we were walking down The sTreeT, and l heard a liTTTe boy say To his moTher in a childish Treble, MoTher, ThaT man iooks so queer! ThaT Ii+Tle boy sTarTed me Thinking, and TonighT while my owner was sleeping, l escaped To a nearby sTar Through The open window. The child was only expressing his honesT opinion, buT I wonder if iT would have made any diTTerence To him iT he had known my masTer. l-le was born in a liTTle Scandinavian village in The midsT oT Tolk who earned a meager living as Tishermen. There was never very much money To go around: a neT Tor Tishing had To be replaced: or OiaT, his TaTher, needed a new pair oT booTs. EnTerTainmenT? l-Te scarcely knew The word. l-Tis greaTesT pleasure was To be Taken ouT wiTh The men in The large Tishing boaTs wiTh The saiT spray dashing over The side and The clean Tangy breeze Tugging aT his hair. And so he grew up To be a Tall, blond young man wiTh an inborn iove OT The sea in his blood and The inheriTed Tearlessness oT men who have had To baTTle The eTemenTs Tor cenTuries. BuT hard Times came To ThaT liTTie village. One year The Tishing was poor: anoTher season sTorms wrecked Their boaTs and Tore away Their overloaded neTs. Things grew worse, and one day OiaT suggesTed To his son ThaT he seek his TorTune in anoTher land. Several weeks TaTer The young boy waved goodbye To his loved ones on The shore. T-le was OTT To America, The promised land! New York TrighTened him aT TirsT. The buildings seemed so Tall, The sTreeTs were Tilled wiTh iosTling men and women, The language was sTrange, The people unfriendly To This boy used To The easy TamiliariTy oT a small village. BuT Viking blood was noT in him Tor naughT: he soon Tound a room To sieep in, made Triends, and became a sTevedore on The wharves near To his beloved sea. There was noT much Time Tor homesickness here: buT as he walked home Through The dark sTreeTs and smelied The ciear air, a nosTalgic memory would fill him wiTh a desire To reTurn To his village in Scandinavia. However, he had been in New York only a Tew monThs, when he received The news oT his parenTs' deaTh. He was alone in This sTrange new worid. Luck had been his porTion Tor a Time: buT one day he became embroiled in a dock TighT, and a chance blow senT him crashing down a Tlighf of sTairs. The hospiTal inTerne who sTood by his bed, when he regained his senses, inTormed him ThaT he had suTTered a compound TracTure oT The hip. When my masTer leTT The hospiTal, he knew he could seek acTive employmenT no longer: he was a cripple. As I siT here on This sTar, T look down aT my masTer sleeping TiTTuily in his narrow bed. AT Times his Tace conTorTs and his hands seem To reach ouT Tor someThing. ThaT liTTle boy walking down The sTreeT oT a dusTy, midwesTern Town would noT undersTand, buT his moTher who all her liTe has longed Tor The Teel oT a cool sea-breeze on her Tace would undersTand. A Viking lad, now an old cripple dereiicT and a Tarmer's wiTe-reachf ing Tor someThing? Courtney Groeschel The Storm An angry cloud STamps down The TrighTened sky. Lol IT is raining. Elizabeth Gips 0 I25 9